One Punch Man in Baki's World

The Outer Ring – Labyrinth Sublevel B3

The ceiling rumbled overhead as Mr. Oliva, muscles glistening with sweat, crouched beneath a mangled steel door he'd torn open with both hands.

His breath was steady, his tank top reduced to tatters. The floor was slick with dust, blood, and oil. Bodies lay scattered behind him, former martial artists twisted into modified combatants, tattoos burned away and nerves twitching from artificial enhancement.

He looked ahead.

The hallway curved downward, dimly lit by flickering red emergency lights. Old bunker doors, half-open, creaked under the pressure of some unseen machinery humming deep underground.

"Someone's getting creative," Oliva muttered, cracking his knuckles.

Another figure emerged from the smoke.

Tall. Gaunt. Skin pale like porcelain, veins pulsing green through a series of implanted tubing that ran down the spine. His face was blank, eyes void of humanity. On his forearms were braces inscribed with calligraphy—"Endurance" and "Legacy."

Oliva tilted his head. "Another one of Kurozuchi's toys?"

The figure didn't speak. Instead, it slid into a low stance, Muay Thai base, but altered.

There was no rhythm. No bounce. It was robotic.

The man charged.

Oliva met him head-on.

A flurry of elbows and knees struck Oliva's torso. Each hit sent a jolt, like electricity laced with impact.

Oliva grunted and grabbed the man by the shoulders, only for the attacker's arms to detach, firing off small needles from hidden launchers beneath the skin.

One embedded into Oliva's arm.

"Poison, huh?" he muttered, face twitching slightly. "Kurozuchi's desperate already."

The man spun in midair, reattaching his limbs magnetically as he landed. His neck twisted unnaturally.

Oliva planted his feet and exhaled.

BOOM.

His punch landed square in the fighter's chest, cracking the ribcage and sending the man flying into the far wall. Concrete exploded.

The enhanced warrior stood again—bones bending back into place with sickening pops.

But he was slower.

Oliva charged.

This time, there was no finesse—just brute, overwhelming force. He grabbed the man by the head, dragged him across the hallway like a ragdoll, and slammed him face-first into a panel of steel piping.

Then again.

And again.

Until the entire wall caved inward.

Finally, the enhanced disciple stopped moving.

Blood and mechanical fluids pooled beneath him.

Oliva stood over the body, chest heaving. His left arm trembled, already reacting to the toxin.

He grabbed a flask from his waistband and downed an antidote provided by the U.S. Department before entering the complex.

"This isn't a labyrinth," he muttered. "It's a lab."

He looked up, eyes narrowing.

"He's testing us."

The camera in the corner whirred softly.

Oliva gave it the finger.

Kurozuchi's Labyrinth – Sublevel 3, Chamber of Silence

The stone corridor twisted downward like the throat of some ancient beast, narrow and cracked with time.

Torches flickered against the walls, casting dancing shadows across Doppo Orochi's weathered face. His breath was steady, his stride calm, but every sense in his body was on high alert.

There was no mistaking it now, Kurozuchi's lair wasn't just a network of tunnels. It was a constructed ecosystem of psychological warfare.

Every sound was engineered, every breath echoed just a fraction too long. Even the air smelled artificial, heavy with chemicals and copper.

Doppo slowed his walk.

The corridor widened into a massive underground chamber—silent, save for the distant drip of water. The ground was smooth, polished obsidian, reflecting the old master's silhouette.

In the center of the room stood a single figure.

A man cloaked in crimson robes, blindfolded, his arms resting behind his back. His frame was slim but sculpted. His aura—unnatural.

Doppo spoke first. "Another one of Kurozuchi's disciples?"

The man didn't answer.

Instead, he inhaled deeply, tilting his head back as if tasting the air.

"You carry the scent of blood. Not just spilled… but honored," the blind man said. His voice was calm, almost reverent. "You must be Orochi."

"I am," Doppo replied, lowering into a subtle fighting stance. "And you are?"

"I am the Red Monk. Once a physician. Now a priest of pain."

Doppo's eyes narrowed.

The Monk removed his robe in one clean motion. His chest was covered in ritual scars, twisted into patterns that looked like dragon scales. His limbs bore surgical implants—metal under skin, like a machine hiding inside a man.

Then the Monk charged.

Doppo reacted instantly, sidestepping with surgical grace. His foot shot up, a side kick aimed at the Monk's ribs. It landed clean, but the Monk didn't budge.

He grabbed Doppo's ankle mid-strike and twisted.

The old man flipped in the air and landed on both feet, breath still even.

"You've modified your body," Doppo said flatly. "That explains the dull pressure I felt. You've dulled your pain receptors."

"I have transcended pain," the Monk said, sweeping low and aiming a palm for Doppo's knee.

The master blocked, countered with a backfist, then struck the Monk's shoulder. But every strike that should've crippled… did nothing. The Monk absorbed the hits like clay.

Doppo clicked his tongue.

"So be it."

His fists flashed into motion, Orochi's Iron Tempest.

Ten strikes. Twenty. A blur of precision that rattled through the Monk's body like lightning. Each punch targeted nerve clusters, pressure points, muscle groups. Finally, the Monk faltered.

He coughed. Blood ran from his mouth.

"I see…" the Monk rasped. "Your hands are sermons of discipline."

Doppo didn't let up.

He swept the Monk's legs, sending him crashing to the obsidian floor. In a blink, Doppo was on him, pinning the chest and raising his fist.

"This isn't discipline," Doppo said, voice low. "This is cleansing."

He struck once—clean, final.

The Monk lay unconscious, finally still.

But Doppo didn't rise yet.

He turned toward the far end of the chamber.

A breeze. A door. An unseen path.

He stood and walked toward it, whispering to the silence:

"I'm getting closer, Kurozuchi."

Kurozuchi's Labyrinth – Sublevel 2, The Gallery

Mr. Oliva walked through a corridor wider than the rest, ornate and lined with statues.

Each figure was carved from jet-black obsidian and posed in a twisted imitation of famous martial arts stances.

A Wing Chun master with a broken spine. A sumo frozen mid-thrust with a cracked rib. A Judo practitioner, locked in an armbar… with no arm.

The strongest man in America slowed his steps.

"Artwork, huh?" he muttered. "Or warnings."

At the end of the gallery was a large metal door, sealed tight with no visible handle. Oliva rolled his shoulders, letting his duffel bag drop with a dull thud. He stepped forward and pressed his hand against the steel.

A hiss.

The door split open, releasing a blast of cold, sterile air.

Inside was a chamber illuminated by clinical white light. Unlike the ancient architecture before, this room was modern, surgical.

Steel floors, fluorescent lights, and walls lined with thick glass tanks. Suspended in each tank: bodies. Musclebound men and women in various stages of modification. Cybernetic limbs. Reinforced spines. Implanted bone plating.

Oliva's brow furrowed.

"Experiments."

He stepped closer to one of the tanks. Inside floated a familiar face—an old opponent from a forgotten underground match. Now enhanced, twisted, no longer recognizable except for a scar on his neck.

A screen flickered to life on the far wall.

Kurozuchi's voice echoed, distorted.

"Welcome, Mr. Oliva."

Oliva didn't flinch.

"I see you've found my gallery. These… are my failures. Strength attempted without soul. Power given, not earned."

The lights dimmed.

From a far chamber, hydraulic doors opened. Footsteps echoed.

A new figure emerged.

He was tall, armored in a flexible exosuit etched with calligraphy. His eyes glowed with micro-optics. Synthetic muscles hummed beneath the skin.

"Meet Subject Nine. One of my few successes," Kurozuchi said. "Designed not to surpass you… but to survive you."

Subject Nine bowed.

Then charged.

Oliva grinned. "Alright then. Let's see what science has cooked up."

Nine struck first, lightning fast. A punch that could dent concrete slammed into Oliva's gut.

Oliva didn't move.

"Not bad," he said, and responded.

His fist crashed into Nine's shoulder, bending armor like foil and sending the cyborg spiraling into the wall. Sparks burst from his suit.

Nine stood, leaking oil.

Then he smiled.

And his body swelled, adrenaline mechanisms kicking in, pushing artificial muscles to the limit.

He dashed forward again.

Oliva caught him mid-charge and lifted him off the floor.

"You ever wrestled a mountain?" he growled, and hurled Nine into the ceiling.

The entire chamber shook.

Oliva cracked his knuckles. "Next time, add some soul."

He turned toward the dark corridor beyond the testing chamber.

"Saitama's in here somewhere," he muttered. "And if this is what the welcome mat looks like… I wanna see the front door."

With a deep breath, Oliva pressed forward, deeper into Kurozuchi's den.

And the labyrinth responded.

TO BE CONTINUED...